A witch was in town, and a Gorgon no less.
In came the scorpion with her tail swinging freely; a runaway fleeing from two worlds, yet desiring the best of both. Freshly liberated from the watchful gaze of the Old Witch, she indulged herself.
First went the local hermit, who lived alone in the woods. He bowed with little effort.
Then came the shepherds, who lived in the outskirts of town. The unexpected visitor arrived at night, gently knocking on each door. The ugly surprise caused plenty of knees to silently buckle. With each visitation the party grew by one, two, even three, till it was a small assortment of sleepwalkers, all lured in by the strange girl with the braid.
But one house was lit by candles. That shepherd was alert, and by chance had seen the mob shambling it’s way towards him. He was sprinting down the hill and towards the sleepy town by the time they arrived at his door.
Finally came the town, with it’s once inky silhouette being ruined by dim yellow flaring up in window after window, all due to the frightened hollering of a country bumpkin running down the dirt street.
Whatever ragtag resistance was organized collapsed like a deck of cards. There really was little hope when it came to fighting a witch with pitchforks and kitchenware.
Now she sat in her appointed palace as the newest, and hopefully permanent, fascination of the townsfolk, all of which, save for a few terrified individuals barricaded away in their own homes, were now centered around the local tavern.
A grand party —-the grandest the place had ever seen—- was being thrown in Shaula’s honor.
And there she was, lounging on the biggest, grandest chair the puppets could find (which happened to be the local landlord’s) and drinking from a priceless silver cup (also the landlord’s) that gleamed brilliantly under the tavern’s lamps. In front of her was a grandiose assemblage of food (courtesy of the landlord), ranging from a modest selection of fruits to chicken to pig. As a final touch, the highest form of art the townsfolk could present was laid on the dinner table: a stone statue of a goose with wings dramatically spread (surprisingly not the landlord’s, but the town butcher’s).
Like any party, there was laughter and excited chatter. Unlike the average party, it came from only one source instead of many: the beaming witch, laying across her gift of a chair instead of facing forward, gleefully kicking her legs in the air. The others were a somber collection of dazed individuals, but Shaula did not seem to care. They came to her at every beck and call. They praised her with every request. They were devoted to her, and she was relishing it.
All it took was a bit of focus and mental strain to keep them in line.
Yet it was not to last. By that time, another witch had arrived to poke her unwelcome nose in Shaula’s affairs.
She was too absorbed in her new freedom to notice that her kin was just beyond the entrance.
